


not a breath too soon

by themountainkingsreturn



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Romance, Touching, Undressing, what have you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themountainkingsreturn/pseuds/themountainkingsreturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she had, in the end, were a few moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a breath too soon

All she had, in the end, were a few moments.

They were dotted here and there amid the frantic sliding into dust and dark – little things that, looking back, made her want to cry for their simplicity. She counted them, categorized them, carried them in her heart, bound them to herself like a thief making away with jewels. She was afraid to write them down. Somehow fixing them into words would take all the life from them, so she numbered and remembered them, but never let them out.

 

1\. She made tea, like usual. But when she put it on the table, she let her hand trail over the wood in front of him for a moment before moving on. A dallying little gesture, mirrored and reciprocated in the soft way he ran his thumb along the edge of the mug, pressed his lips together, half-smiled.

 

2\. They watched a Disney movie on a Friday evening. Nina was curled into George, who was dozing as the heroine belted out a song about how much she wanted an exciting life. Mitchell had reluctantly agreed to watch. There was a little smirk curving his mouth as he sat low on the couch, arms crossed.

“Why do they need the animals talking?”

“‘Cause it’s a fairytale,” she said.

“Bit bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Shhh,” said Nina.

Annie smiled and, without really thinking, reached her hand over and ran it through Mitchell’s hair. He didn’t start. He didn’t seem to notice. She passed her ghost fingers softly through the clumped curls, separated them, ran them again past her fingertips. As another song began (a slow, sad reprise), he leaned his head back and towards her very slightly. For just a moment, she thought she saw him close his eyes, breathe out.

 

3\. They sat and talked late into the night once. It was maybe the most normal conversation they’d ever had. She found out he’d met the Beatles at a party, that he liked pizza but hated Italian food, and (predictably) thought all rock’n’roll released after the eighties was crap. She told him about how she’d thought about going to culinary school, about how she named the family cat Jasmine after Aladdin came out, about her disastrous first date when she was thirteen. At about 2 AM, the conversation hit a lull, and Mitchell made a sudden move as though to stand up, but then sat back down, looking slightly confused. She raised an eyebrow from her seat in the corner. 

“I was going to go to bed,” he said slowly, still looking a bit lost.

“And you were going to usher me out the door?” she said.

“Er,” he said. “I’m not really sure.”

She shrugged and stood up, meaning to kiss him on the way out and head to her chair in her room.

“No, wait.”

She turned around. He raised his head. He almost looked afraid. Or maybe sad. She couldn’t quite tell.

“Stay,” he said quietly. His voice sounded constricted.

She nodded once and sat down on the bed as he got up, pulled off his gloves and began to unbutton his shirt – until her hands stopped him. He watched, seemingly stunned, as she carefully undid each button and helped him shrug out of the shirt. She folded it and placed it on top of the overflowing hamper, patting it twice. He peeled off his undershirt and trousers and turned out the light (though not before she snuck a quick look). She picked these up and folded them too, then followed him as he got under the blanket, wrapped herself behind him, kissed his forehead, pulled the cover up higher. She considered singing, but she’d never had a very good voice, and that might be a bit too motherly anyway.

So she stayed beside him as the slivered moon climbed higher and his breath slowed to a deep, even rhythm. She swept a curl from his temple and tried to imagine her heart beating again in time to the soft pulse under her fingers. That would be ideal, of course, in a perfect world. But this was enough for now.

 

4\. He took off his gloves to do the dishes (for once) and she put them on when he wasn’t looking. 

“I’m Mitchell, everyone,” she announced, raising her hands above her head and waggling her fingers. “I don’t take showers and I rub magazines on myself and I am lucky my girlfriend has no sense of smell.” George cackled and Nina looked grudgingly amused as Mitchell barged through the double doors behind her.

“ – the fuck are my gloves?” 

She spun around and grinned, spreading her fingers at eye level. His mouth twisted in a reluctant, slightly bemused smile as he approached, reaching for her hands. She straightened her arms before he could catch them, standing on her tip toes, leaning backwards, but he was still taller. He reached up without looking and pulled the gloves off her hands finger by finger, kissing her as he did so. She almost fell backwards (being on her tip-toes), but at the last moment, he pocketed the second glove and put a hand on the small of her back to steady her. George cleared his throat loudly. Mitchell stepped away, sending a pointed smirk at George. He didn’t let go of her hand until their arms were both outstretched, then slipped his fingers from hers and headed back into the kitchen to finish the dishes. They’d bribed him with the promise of finally watching Casablanca, so he really had to.

 

5\. Annie didn’t watch much of it. Mitchell’s hand was at the nape of her neck, his palm warm against her head, thumb and two fingers idly twisting and raking the ringlets. She closed her eyes and breathed out.

 

There were more, of course. Little things too small to even count: moonlight on the bridge of his nose; that one time he let her taste the tea she’d made for him (it still lingered on her tongue sometimes in the blackness of the night); the curve of his jaw under her hand; the wonder she felt when she thought about how much she’d wanted him, not needed, just wanted for her own, and how much he’d wanted her, how he’d never asked her to save him. How she could only let him save himself.

So she held those few moments to herself, thinking maybe if she buried them deep enough and loved them hard enough, they might pressurize to become gems that would never lose their brilliance. It was exhausting, loving this much. It hurt. But she never wanted to stop.

Because, in the end, she’d only had a few moments.


End file.
